


Home

by shalako



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied Rape/NonCon, Kidnapping, M/M, Non magic AU, PTSD, Torture, archie and gold's relationship is young and fragile in this fic, as per usual, for once in my fics and perhaps in canon Gold is not the crybaby, gratuitous tears and hugs, impulsive emotional hair cutting, post Zelena recovery, short haired Gold, well not like a major crybaby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 16:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15911877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shalako/pseuds/shalako
Summary: After being rescued from Zelena, Mr. Gold isolates himself.





	Home

After seven months of captivity in that tiny cage, in that dark cellar, Mr. Gold stands before his bathroom mirror in nothing but pajama pants and chops his hair off. Long strands of it, brown and silver streaks, fall to the floor, curl around his feet. Mr. Gold remembers when he liked his hair -- back when it was more auburn than brown, when it framed his face, brushed the back of his neck, caught different colors from the sun. But now he’s washed it seven times, once for every month he was stuck down there, and it still looks lank and over-long and dirty.

He cuts indiscriminately. Hair gets stuck in the sliding cracks of the scissors and he has to stop to wrench it out. He only means to cut it back down to its normal length, but soon his hair’s gone from hanging between his shoulder blades to tickling his neck, and soon after that it’s only covering his ears, and soon after that it’s just some short messy tufts of grass atop his scalp and nothing more. He stops then, puts the scissors down with trembling hands, makes eye contact with himself in the mirror. His fingers latch onto the sides of the sink. His breathing is shallow and fast.

He doesn’t really recognize himself. He hasn’t had short hair since he was a boy, and even then, it was always a little longer than was fashionable. He runs his fingers through it, brushes loose strands of hair onto the floor. It’s uneven. He shouldn’t have gone so fast, but at least it’s short enough now that you can’t really tell. He’ll take the time to fix it later, when it starts to grow.

For now, he looks down at the floor and feels like he is floating. He feels like his hair is cleaner now and somebody could touch it, if they wanted.

The hospital wants him to go see a therapist, but the only therapist in town is the one he was dating seven months before, when Mr. Gold disappeared. He doesn’t like the idea of Archie psychoanalyzing him. He doesn’t like the idea of seeing Archie at all, and he’s not sure why. It was his constant fantasy in the cellar that the door would open one day and Archie (and Sheriff Swan, as an afterthought, because somebody had to have Archie’s back in these daydreams) would come running down the stairs to get him out, to rescue him.

Archie never came. Eventually, the police raided the house Mr. Gold was being kept in. They’d been searching for the owner of the house due to some unrelated crime to do with the Blanchard/Nolan baby, but instead they found a captive. He spent weeks in the hospital and Archie came to visit him no less than sixteen times, but every time, Mr. Gold turned him away.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and pads his way softly out of the bathroom. There’s a broom tucked between his bedroom closet and the wall, and he uses it to sweep his hair off the floor and into a dustpan. His vision blurs when he crouches down to get it all; he tosses the hair blindly into the garbage can, hopes it all goes in. When he finally stumbles out and collapses onto his bed, fists clenched in the sheets, face buried in the mattress, he has no idea what time of day it is. The clock says 2:40, but it’s dark out, and he swears he started cutting his hair in the early morning, and there’s just no way it took him so many hours to cut his hair, and no way for him to see his way out of this confusion.

He sniffs and stretches out an arm, turns the bedside lamp on. It’s hideously bright, especially coupled with the light that still spills out of the bathroom, but it chases the shadows from outside away, and Mr. Gold pulls himself into a sitting position, wipes his face, searches every corner of the room methodically to see if anyone is there.

He’s all alone. There’s little relief in that. He turns his eyes all around the room again, and again, and finally he musters up the courage to get up and check his closet as well. There’s no one in there; he stabs the broom-handle into it, rattles it around the wardrobe, waiting with baited breath for it to catch on someone’s flesh.

Nothing. He breathes through his nose, seeking strength for the next component. He has to check under the bed, but he can only do that by getting on his stomach, and if he’s lying down that means he’s easy to attack.

It takes him five minutes to finally, with shaking knees, lower himself to the floor. He stretches the broom across the floor in front of him, waves it to and fro underneath the bed. It smacks against something hard and Mr. Gold goes cold all over before an old forgotten shoebox sails out from underneath the bed, propelled by the force of the broom. There’s nothing under his bed, either, then. He nudges the box back under there with his foot.

His eyes rake the room again. He wonders if it’s possible he missed something before, if an intruder is lurking there, laughing at him, waiting to strike.

He starts the ritual again.

* * *

Archie paces around his living room and thinks. There’s a blue flannel shirt, folded and draped on the back of the couch, that keeps catching his eye. It’s been there for over half a year, ever since he interrupted Gold folding laundry for a kiss. Neither of them put the flannel up before they went to bed, and seven months later, it was still there. It was Gold’s shirt -- outside the house, he was all business, dapper and intimidating and silk shirts and pinstriped suits. But inside the house he was working-class again, like when he was a father, and the clothes he wore reflected it. Only Archie ever saw that part of him.

They’d found Gold just last month, and Archie _still_ hadn’t seen him, not even in passing. He’d been refused entrance every time he went to visit -- “Mr. Gold doesn’t want any visitors today,” the nurse said. But Gold is out of the hospital now and he still hasn’t called, still hasn’t come home.

Archie makes his way up the steps to his bedroom -- what used to be _their_ bedroom. Mr. Gold’s things are still hanging in the closet, folded in the drawers. Everyone in town had known that Gold was kidnapped, not murdered, because of the pictures sent anonymously to the newspaper by Gold’s kidnapper, but even if things had been the opposite way, Archie doesn’t think he’d have thrown the other man’s clothes out. He’d have kept them as long as he could, until the grieving process insisted he let go.

He wonders if Gold will come back for his clothes someday, or if he’ll just leave them here to rot. Then he realizes with a jolt that he doesn’t have to wait for Gold to come to him.

Archie grabs a suitcase from the closet and opens it. He lifts piles of folded shirts and sweaters out of Gold’s old drawers, stuffs them in the suitcase. When that’s full, he moves on to a duffel bag, and when it’s time for the suits, he puts them in a garment bag and grabs all three of his bundles together when he marches out the house.

He has to go see Gold.

* * *

It’s _technically_ morning when Mr. Gold wakes up. He feels tired, like he needs to sleep for three more days. That’s exactly what he did, when they first rescued him -- he slept and slept and slept. He used to _hate_ sleeping, considered it unnecessary, a waste of time. Now it’s the only hobby he can remember how to do.

He turns over in bed and closes his eyes, and that’s when the doorbell rings again. With a sigh, Mr. Gold pushes himself to his feet and heads downstairs. Once upon a time, he’d have changed first, gotten out of his pajamas and into a suit before he let anyone see him. He can’t seem to muster the energy to care; he can’t remember why he ever cared in the first place. Keywords, remnants of his old reasoning, float through his mind, but he can’t focus enough to figure them out.

He answers the door in a t-shirt and cotton pants.

Archie stands on the other side.

“Hi,” he says with a bright, awkward smile. He offers up a suitcase and Mr. Gold takes it without questioning, confused enough by Archie’s presence.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. Archie heaves a duffel bag off his shoulder and into the parlor. He squints around a little as he steps inside, like he expects the house to be different.

“Thought I’d come to visit,” Archie says casually. “Drop off all your clothes, since you weren’t coming to get them.”

Mr. Gold just stares at him; after a mild silence, he kneels down and unzips the duffel bag, looking at what Archie’s brought him. On top of all his old clothes is an ancient grey teddy bear.

“Figured you’d want that,” Archie says. “I, uh -- I know you didn’t really want me to know about it. That you had one. But I found it in the closet, after you --”

He cuts himself off, realizes how close he’d come to mentioning the kidnapping, searches for the right words. Eventually, he can only end it with a lame, “Well, you know.”

There’s a long pause. Gold turns the teddy bear upside-down and looks at the faded name scrawled across its foot in Sharpie: Bae. He sucks in a breath, holds it, and bites the inside of his cheeks.

“I like your hair,” Archie says, his voice falsely cheerful. Mr. Gold stares at him funny, and Archie gestures to his own scalp. “I’ve never seen it short. Did they cut it at the hospital?”

Mr. Gold just looks at him, and Archie doesn’t think he’s gonna answer. But finally, Mr. Gold shakes his head. Archie hesitates and then moves forward a little, puts his hand up slowly, carefully, like people do when confronting a wild dog. Mr. Gold’s eyes flicker and then go blank, and he lets Archie touch his hair.

“It’s a little uneven,” Archie mutters. He draws away. “You did it yourself? I can fix it for you, if you want.”

Mr. Gold’s gaze shutters away. “No, thanks,” he says. Archie nods silently and doesn’t try to keep the conversation going. He studies Mr. Gold instead -- Gold looks thinner than he was before, and his shoulders are rounded now instead of straight and firm. He looks ready to hunch in on himself, ready to hide.

That’s not Gold. That’s not who Gold is.

Archie makes a quick decision. “I’m gonna fix you some lunch,” he announces, dragging the suitcase further into the hall. “How’s that sound? I’m thinking tomato soup, some sandwiches, veggies and dip …”

“I missed you,” Gold says, voice small. Archie’s words stutter to a halt and he turns to look at Mr. Gold. He’s staring at the floor, looking smaller than ever. A painful lump forms in Archie’s throat.

“I missed you, too,” he says. He swallows, searches for something to say. “Gold -- I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you. You know, after -- these last few months.”

“You tried,” Gold says with a shrug. He takes a few steps forward and then stops, still staring at the floor, and Archie remembers enough about Mr. Gold to know that any deliberate closeness, no matter how natural-seeming, is a plea for a hug. He complies, then, wrapping his arms around Gold, squeezing him tight.

He doesn’t let go until Gold pulls away. It doesn’t surprise Archie that Gold is completely dry-eyed; the other man always did prefer scowls to tears. Archie, of course, has become a snotty mess in less than 30 seconds. He sniffs and covers his nose and mouth, staring at Gold with blurred vision and wet eyes.

“God,” he says. “Sorry. Sorry.”

Gold says something that sounds like “It’s fine,” but cuts himself off before he can say more, evidently too embarrassed on Archie’s behalf to even speak.

“I’ve been trying not to think about it,” Archie explains, his voice still thick. He sniffs hard and takes a moment to get himself under control. “About what happened. But --”

“It’s fine,” Gold says again, clearly uncomfortable. He looks around for something to do so he won’t have to watch Archie cry, and eventually settles on moving the duffel bag into the kitchen. Archie follows him and immediately tries to distract himself by examining the kitchen. There are plastic shopping bags piled up on the kitchen table, still half-full of things like Excedrin, flashlights, cheap throw blankets from the general store --

And tissue packs. Archie grabs one; he pretends not to see Gold pretending not to see him blow his nose. Across the room, Gold is looking through cupboard after cupboard with a blank face and a steadily sinking heart -- he’s pretty sure there isn’t any food in the house.

Archie beats him to this realization by opening the fridge.

“Gold?” he says, already sounding mildly scandalized. “Please tell me I’m hallucinating the complete _lack_ of groceries here.”

The look Gold gives him is entirely expressionless.

“What on earth have you been eating?” Archie asks. “Tap water and dust?”

“I had a sandwich yesterday,” Gold says, taking a seat at the kitchen table. The legs of his pajama pants are too long and swish against the floor every time he moves; it’s disconcerting, because Archie knows Gold never used to wear clothes that were ill-fitting, and knows that he’d at least have rolled up the cuffs before.

“A sandwich,” Archie repeats. He can’t think of anything to say for a moment, so he just shakes his head. “A sandwich -- Gold, you’ve been -- I mean, aren’t you a bit malnourished, from--?”

Gold doesn’t answer, just stares at the kitchen table. Archie remembers the humiliating photos of Gold that circulated online for months, sent to the newspaper by Zelena and leaked by Sidney Glass against police orders. He remembers how Gold’s ribs and hip bones stuck out, visible even in the grainiest pictures. He takes a steadying breath.

“I’m gonna go get some food,” he says. “Do you wanna come with me?”

He knows the answer will be no, and Gold shakes his head to confirm it.

“Okay. Will you let me in when I come back?”

Gold nods. When Archie turns away, he hears a short, shallow breath, the kind people take when they’re trying not to cry. He turns back again, studying Gold’s face.

“I’m fine,” Gold says, not making eye contact. “Just go.”

There’s something about his tone that makes Archie go cold. He comes closer, not quite daring to touch Gold without permission.

“Gold?” he says softly. “Can you look at me, please?”

Gold’s face works for a moment; he refuses to glance up at Archie. “ _Go_ ,” he says again. Archie kneels in front of him, placing his hands very slowly on Gold’s arms.

“Sweetheart,” he says, “it’s just me, okay? Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Gold leans forward abruptly, hiding his face in Archie’s shoulder. Archie freezes for a moment, unsure what’s happening -- but it’s rare for Gold to initiate a hug, and God knows he needs one, so Archie just wraps his arms around Gold and holds still. He can feel the other man trembling and taking shallow breaths.

“Gold?” Archie asks tentatively. “Did you just hug me so I wouldn’t be able to see you cry?”

Gold huffs out a very tearful-sounding laugh.

“Yes,” he says.

“I knew it.” Archie shifts a little so he can pull Gold closer; Gold latches onto him instantly and suddenly Archie has to fight back tears of his own. This is such a familiar position but it’s one he’d almost forgotten; he was sure Gold’s kidnapper would kill him before Archie ever got to hug him again.

“I thought you would save me,” Gold says suddenly, his voice quiet and broken. “I kept waiting. Thought about it … every night, at least. I thought I could hear you coming down the stairs sometimes. I know I can’t be angry at you for not finding me so I’m trying not to but …”

Archie can’t think of anything to say. The only apology he can think up dies after the word “sorry.” Which, incidentally, is what Gold says next.

“I’m sorry.” He pulls away, wiping his eyes. “It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“It’s okay,” says Archie awkwardly, not sure yet if it really is. It feels like a hole has been punched in his chest.

“I don’t want you to go,” Gold says next, his eyes still wet. “I’m not hungry. I just don’t want to be alone here.”

Archie nods. Before he can decide what to do next, Gold is clutching at him again.

“You want me to stay the night?” Archie asks. Gold shrugs as best he can.

“Or go to your place,” he says. Archie nods again.

“If you want,” he says. Gold’s expression breaks, forming a tiny smile. His first in ages, Archie’s sure. “Do you want me to keep your stuff here, then?” Archie asks. “Or should we take it back to the house?”

Gold looks down at the duffel bag. “Take it back,” he says eventually. “It was there for a reason.”

Archie can’t help but smile in relief. He puts his arms around Gold again and squeezes tight.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of hmmmmm about seven different fics I've written, all with the basic premise of "Gold is kidnapped by Zelena, but there's no magic and he's with Archie instead of Belle." The main reason I've never posted any of those fics is because there's so many, and they're all based on slightly different premises -- like "what if Gold used Archie as an imaginary friend to stay sane during his kidnapping", "what if Gold escapes on his own and stumbles into Archie's yard", "what if Archie is the one sane person amongst the Heroes who realizes Gold needs help afterward" etc. I could never decide which premise I liked best and I figured no one would want to wade through seven slightly-different fics on the same subject, so I wound up going with the most generic of the seven lol


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